“You want to find your sister? Call off your dog.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The PI. Call her off.”
“Then tell me. Tell me where my sister is.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety or hers while you’ve got people sniffing around. Call. Her. Off.”
The line goes dead.
Damn it.
Seriously?
Alayna told me I could call her anytime, and I’m ready to punch in her number when?—
Call off your dog.
I don’t for a minute think this person knows where Griffin is. I’m still convinced she’s dead.
But what if…
What if he’s telling the truth?
What if sheisalive, and she’s in danger, and the fact I’m talking to an investigator is exacerbating that danger?
Is that a chance I can take?
I’m glad Diana’s not home. Not that I could tell her anything about this, but she was kind enough to bring in an investigator to help me.
How am I supposed to tell her that I have to call it off?
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I call the number back.
Not that I expect anyone to answer.
Was it even the same voice? It sounded like it was. But it’s not like I have recordings to compare the two.
There’s no way of knowing anything.
This is so fucked up.
I got a new job—that won’t pay me a living wage—from a guy who just wants to get into my roommate’s pants. The same roommate I fucked into oblivion twenty-four hours ago.
I’m getting weird phone calls about my sister who I assumed has been dead for over twenty years. I got a PI by the grace of Diana, and now I’m told I have to call her off or whoever the fuck this is can’t guarantee Griffin’s safety. Assuming she actuallyisalive.
Oh, and of course, I’m out on bail for soliciting a prostitute.
Not to mention that my sobriety is hanging on by a fucking thread.
The only thing stopping me from running to the nearest liquor store and downing an entire case of beer is the memory of what my last relapse did to my best friend in the world and his band—myband.
But damn, I could sure use a hit right now. Fuck, it doesn’t even need to be a hit. Just a beer. Something to take the edge off.